He had a great handshake.

I couldn’t sleep Sunday night. I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t seem to get comfortable. I was awake when the flash from the BBC came across my phone about Pope Francis’ death. Deep down I think most of us expected that his time was growing short, but I was still shocked.

I was a fan girl from the beginning. When he walked into the hotel to pay his own bill after being elected, I knew he was going to be different. He walked the line that all true moderates do, he was disliked by both sides. He’d say something liberals loved, but never go as far as they wanted. The same for ultra conservatives. His map was the Bible and the precepts of Christianity.

We met him in person in Rome in 2019, just a couple of weeks before Covid broke out in northern Italy. We were allowed a personal visit with him because we’d been awarded Papal Knighthoods in 2017 for our work with teens and young adults with fetal alcohol.

He had a great handshake. Growing up in Oklahoma, handshakes meant something. He didn’t understand English, so I had to fall back on my rusty Spanish. He asked how we were enjoying our visit. He apologized for the rain. I told him it was snowing back home. He chuckled with a big smile.

He knew who we were because we had been vetted by the Swiss Guard, the Papal Nuncio and the Vatican’s Secretary of State. One of his assistants had whispered in his ear as he approached us. He asked me how our “kids” were doing in our absence. I had to tell him one got arrested the day after we left for Rome.

I told him that when the phones rings in the middle of the night, I know it’s the hospital or the police. He looked very somber and said, “what a challenge that must be.” I knew he’d had an adult with developmental disabilities live with him in Argentina for several years. Like soldiers from different wars who’d lived through the fire, we nodded knowingly at each other.

We gave him a copy of the children’s book I wrote involving him in an escapade with our basset hound. The version we gave him was written in Cree. He asked what language it was, and he didn’t understand what Cree was, so I used the word for Mexican Aboriginals but said Canadian, and he seemed delighted. I explained that all of the young people we take in are aboriginal.

My husband who doesn’t speak Spanish stood there a bit stunned watching us talk like old friends. We talked for over 10 minutes, but then he had to move on to the next special guest. They were Union leaders from Argentina who’d brought him an autographed Messi jersey. He broke into an enormous grin like a kid on Christmas morning.

It was a short visit, but I got a really good view of his true self. He clearly loved life. He also clearly loved people. All of the interactions that day I witnessed showed me that. He touched people, their hands, their heads, and gave hugs freely to small kids. He took pleasure in taking time to talk to people.

You could clearly see that he was in back pain as he walked. Still, he also had a spring in his step. Being near him, you could feel this warmth radiate from him. Meeting him made a huge impression on me. I knew it would be the trip of a lifetime, but I didn’t expect the meeting to touch me so profoundly.

We were staying across the street from St. Peter’s Square. That evening, I sat on the steps of the colonnade. As the sun went down, the tourists were long gone, and shadows fell across the cobblestones. As the wind blew through the square, I could feel the shadows come to life with voices of ages past. I suspect that Pope Francis’ laughter has joined those voices.

Dr. Catherine Mardon is a retired attorney, social activist and author. She is an Adjunct Professor at the University of Alberta’s John Dossetor Health Ethics Centre, and serves on the Ethics Committee at the Glenrose Rehabilitation Hospital. She recently was awarded the IIPL Pakistani Peace Award.